Of the Night
by xMaelstrom
Summary: Because sins are best kept in the dark. Tullius/DB
1. Prologue

It was a night of flickering candle lights and shadows dancing. Of rain and moist and quiet struggles. Of silks torn, and the scent reminding him of _snow_. Blindfolding her was a smart move, yes, but he's certain she might recall his scent. _Let her_, a voice inside his head said, _so that she'll remember who she belongs to from tonight onward._

"Listen well," his voice came out rugged and hushed, strange even to his own ear, "scream and it will be the last sound you'll make."

Her breathing hitched, a tiny glimmer of teeth showed as she bit her lower lip, indicating she's quelling her tears. It spurned him on, and the thought of tearing off her clothes and taking her there and then was tempting. Leaving her dishevelled to be seen by the servants gnawed at him—a masterpiece crying and dishonored in the shadows is satisfying indeed. She'd be ruined for marriage, yes, and he will wait until he can sink his claws unto her again. When that time comes, he will not let her go _anymore_.

Lust can make a man do the unthinkable, they say. But it's actually greed that drives a person and selfishness to keep it. Tullius buried his face to her hair, the blade still at her neck, and inhaled deeply. She smelled of those snowberries that grew in the cold regions of Skyrim, a rare commodity here in Cyrodiil. _Much like how she is,_ he mused inside his head. No doubt her lineage could be traced there, but that does not matter at present… it's only him and her and the rain pelting against the windows who knew secrets best kept in the dark.

Bracing his knees against either side of her hip to straddle her, his hands found hers and brought both above her head, twining his to hers gently as he softly brushed his lips on her cheeks and down to her ear. The quiet gasp she gave away encouraged him, and left a trail of kisses down her neck before licking and biting his way up again. His eyes then landed on her lips—slightly parted and ready for his claiming, but that could _wait_.

Trailing his dagger gently down the bodice of her gown, he sliced through silk and stopped when it reached her navel. Her body shook ever so slightly with the combined coldness from the tip of his blade and her own exposed flesh. Placing the blade back to its sheath by his hip, he backed himself a little to _stare_. By the faint light from the failing candle, he saw her breasts move to each rhythm of breath she makes—an enticing view to any man, but more to him. Continuing where he left off, he kissed his way down to her collarbone, until he reached her right nipple. He darted out his tongue to taste the tiny bud of pink, eliciting a moan from the mer. He blew on it, and felt her grip tighten on him. Releasing his right hand, he cradled the wet nub and turned his attention to her left one, while his left hand gently let her wrists go to part her torn nightgown. Even with her hands free, they stayed above her head, clutching at the bed sheets as she bit her lip; silent tears wetting the blindfold. But he can't stop now that he's gone too far.

He kissed down…down to her navel and finally down to the valley between her legs. The scents emanating from her almost drove him mad—and as he dipped himself down to taste her; he almost lapped everything as a painful reminder of his disgrace. Parting her nether lips, his tongue immediately found the bundle of nerves in the apex of her thighs and circled it. Her breath hitched and when his teeth grazed it, she _moaned_. He continued this slow, torturous pace until her back arched, her own hips bucking to him and her breath ragged. Her toes pointed; her moans filling his ears as his mouth did wonders to her clit.

"Please," he heard her cry out, _"Please…_"

She breathed out a relieved moan as her hips twitched when he brought her to her climax. By the gods, she was wet and more than ready for him. But he won't take her; all he promised himself was a _taste_. As much as he wanted her, he found himself unwilling to steal her away—not from his own brother. With a dry smile to himself, he stroked her cheek affectionately and whispered, _"I'm sorry."_ And when the lilting candle burned out, he was _gone_.

* * *

With a ragged breath, Tullius woke up and quickly sat to the side of his bed. It was still dim out, and his fires long burnt out. Castle Dour in this hour should be a bit cold, but he was feeling warm; as he did each time that memory visits him in his sleep. Perhaps he can relieve himself, _just for tonight_. He took out his shaft from his breeches and began to stroke himself. In his mind, he's seeing himself taking his dream all the way. He imagines her dainty fingers raking down his back as ravished her, her soft moans and her walls around him. It could be better if he heard her whisper his name, even just once…

Instead, what came to his mind is that curtsying snow-white haired mer in her silks and striking pale blue eyes and a small smile on her lips. _"General."_

He lost himself then and emptied himself to his hand. Quickly cleaning up, he laid down his bed after a while, trying to control his breathing. _Soon,_ he told himself. _But first, a business needs settling in Helgen._ A faint smile to himself, he closed his eyes. _Soon._

* * *

**Disclaimer:** The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim belongs to Bethesda.

**A/N:** Hi there. Comments/reviews are most welcome! While I see a potential for some chapters to follow, do let me know if I made some mistakes along the way so I can correct it in the following chapters I'll make. I'll try to put up the second chapter same day next week. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 1

General Tullius is a practical man—he had to be, or he stands no chance on fulfilling what he was sent here for. That said, he believed everything can be explained, that reasons can be found beyond actions. Same words filled his mind as he drew his horse to a stop to survey the carts wheeling into Helgen, containing the Stormcloak rebels they captured a day ago. The first cart contained people in chainmail hinted with blue as their uniform, nothing peculiar about that. The second cart carried Ulfric Stormcloak, the very reason this 'uprising' is causing havoc for, a Stormcloak soldier, a man caught stealing one of the horses reined in the Imperial camp they designed to ambush these people and the last passenger; a woman, with unkempt snowy hair. _Hair that had a wedding wreath in its crown that was barely holding on._

Recognition struck him like lightning. Unconsciously, his hand went up to his throat which felt very dry at the moment. He can hear and feel his pulse in his head, preceding the cold sweat he's now feeling under his armour. It was a good thing his senses never failed him, and reeled his horse to face the approaching trots of Elenwen's horse in time. The First Emissary of the Thalmor was flanked by two Altmer foot soldiers that looked equally as smug as her.

"I take it the ambush went well, General?" She inquired; golden eyes watching the carts enter the village. Eyebrows arching up, her eyes followed the last cart until it stopped and its passengers unloaded. "Is that…?"

The question died in her mouth as they both dismounted to approach the block.

"Who are you?" He can hear Hadvar, one of his men; ask her when she stepped forward. She only stood quiet, brows furrowed and her head down. From where he stood at the plaza, he had a better look at her. Streaks of dirt and blood, hopefully not hers, marred the pale face and the bound hands of this painfully familiar prisoner. With her silks and finery traded to a roughspun tunic and a pair of breeches, she looked almost pathetic. But it was her dazed grey, almost platinum eyes—uncommon to her race, which confirmed all his suspicions. What is she doing here? He stole a glance at Elenwen; if her parted lips were of any sign of bafflement, he doesn't know what is.

As much as he wanted to pull her out of the line-up, he can't do much—not with the presence of the Thalmor and the public. Of all the things he'd want to convey to the townspeople, cowering behind the Aldmeri Dominion is not one of them. Especially not in front of the rebels; doing so will give them more merit and even if they decapitate the head today, the body would still continue the started propaganda which will lead to things he'd rather not want to think at the moment. He had an obligation and fulfil it, he will. He can only hope she doesn't go to the block first. Better if she goes last, maybe by then he can do anything he wanted to.

"Wait, do not execute her," Elenwen's voice rang out, "A member of the Aldmeri Dominion-"

"-Is working with the rebels, with all due respect, Madame Ambassadress." The Imperial captain quipped, seemingly ready for this. "We can agree that all traitors deserve a rebel's death, can't we, Madame?"

The Thalmor was speechless. Tullius thought it better to give commends to the captain for a job well done when all this is over.

* * *

The priestess of Arkay almost snorted in disbelief. "As you wish," she huffed before walking off.

"Come on, I haven't got all morning!" The irate Stormcloak rattled on.

The Imperial captain went up behind him and forced him to kneel down and place his head on the block. And even in that moment of weakness, the rebel smiled smugly as the headsman drew up his axe.

"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials," He continued, "Can you say the same?"

The axe flew down swift and with a heavy thud, the rebel's head dropped into the basket—it's smile intact. This, apparently, drew in various reactions from the people present.

"You Imperial bastards!" One of the Stormcloaks yelled.

"Justice!"

"Death to the Stormcloaks!"

Tullius could feel a headache making its way from the base of his skull up to his left temple. He instead steeled his expression and balled his fists resting against his hip. It will be over soon.

"Next, the high elf!"

A cold, numbing sweat erupted from his back yet again, a chilling sensation most unwelcome. Quietly, he grit his teeth and tightened his fists. _No, not like this…_

"There it is again," Hadvar said, looking up.

He found himself tilting his head to the sky as well, and heard echoes he was sure he has never heard before.

"I said," the Imperial captain's stern voice cut through the confusion, "next prisoner!"

"To the block, prisoner," the boy-soldier coaxed, his expression sullen, "nice and easy."

That's where he noticed a slight limp as she made her way to the headsman's block; her lips thin, keeping her peace within. Her grey eyes stared out into the sky as the captain roughly brought her to her knees. And then, the roar echoed once more, like drums to an impending doom.

"What in Oblivion is that?" He found himself voicing his own thoughts.

"Sentries! What do you see?"

"It's in the clouds!"

A shadow flickered by him, making him snap his head to the direction of the watchtower. Its enormous ebony wings folded as it perched itself on top of it, the sheer force of it knocking the headsman from his feet.

"Dragon!" A frightened scream from one of the soldiers resounded, causing panic among the public and his own men.

But with the knowledge that she didn't die, he felt himself go lightweight in relief—until the dragon opened its mouth. What erupted from its mouth sounded like a thunderclap, and it caused the sky to swirl and turn dark. With the commotion stirring, he knew he has to do his job first.

"Guards! Get the townspeople to safety!"

He drew his sword and sprang into action. A last glance was all he can give, and saw her heading towards a watchtower with one of the rebels.

* * *

When an Imperial soldier informed her that the General is back, the fact that Ulfric made it out of Helgen alive and the presence of a dragon interrupting the execution, Legate Rikke didn't know whether she should shake her head in disbelief or be outraged. Seems like this civil war, as the citizens had wont to call it, gets worse each passing day. She can only speculate how hard the General is taking it, and she can only feel sorry for him. As if on cue, said man stepped into Castle Dour, his face straight and his pace steady but she can see it very well that he is fatigued. Knowing it would be for the best if she kept her opinions to herself at the moment, she clasped a fist across her chest and straightened her posture to address him, "General."

"At ease," he said, stopping in the opposite end of the table where the map of Skyrim was laid out. "I assume you've heard about the fiasco that was Helgen, Legate."

"I have, sir."

"I think it's safe to guess that Ulfric hightailed to Windhelm the moment chance presented itself to him." He continued, before pinning a blue flag where Windhelm is. "Considering that we both lost a good amount of men, it would take time before he gathers a few more men rallying under his banner. He is at his weakest, and it could have been advantageous for us to attack."

He stepped back and stared at the map. "If only we had the resources to march at Windhelm and force him to surrender."

Rikke, watching him carefully, noticed that while his hands and mouth convey one thing, his eyes never left Helgen and the surrounding area. I_ wonder what really happened over there._ And then she remembered something vital.

"General, a courier from Cyrodiil arrived before you did." Gesturing to a box secured with a tight string sitting atop the planning table, she continued, "He's been tipped handsomely for services rendered, but his instructions were for you to be the one to personally see to it."

He wordlessly held the box and studied the scrawled note on top of it.

"I'll be in my chambers should anything call for my attention," was all he said before retreating upstairs.

It was when Rikke finally allowed herself to sigh.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim belongs to Bethesda.

**A/N:** Hi there. Comments/reviews are most welcome! As always, I'll try to put up the second chapter same day next week. [Even if I failed one day from the promised date :c] Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 2

"So, who are you, really?" Hadvar asked before taking a spoonful from his soup.

Rain pelted softly against the roof; thunder can be heard grumbling from a distance, and boy was he relieved they made it to Riverwood before it poured. To say he was exhausted is an understatement, if only he can impose further from his uncle, he would sleep for a week. Duties be damned—he's stressed enough to see more of what had transpired in Helgen. Even the faintest blink makes him recall the stench of burning corpses, the blood and cries of the citizens… Eyes trained on the stranger he brought with him, he tried to gauge if she's hurt somewhere. She hasn't really talked during the ordeal. Even when she casted a fire spell against the Stormcloak rebels they've come across while venturing through the keep; he can tell it's the first time she actually killed someone, but she didn't say anything about it. Then again he couldn't blame her, the experience probably scarred her. This Altmer after all, gave off the aura of nobility—innocence, even. Man, this war involves everyone and demands everything. He can only feel sorry for her, and hope this war would finally draw to an end soon.

Grabbing the bread near him, he took a bite before initiating conversation again. "So… a wedding wreath, eh? Are you some sort of a runaway bride or something?"

The soldier watched as her eyes widened, and the grip she had on her bread tightened.

"Now, now Hadvar," Sigrid spoke as she made her way towards them, "The girl went through a lot in just a day, give her the space she deserves at least." She then turned to their guest, and placed a hand on her shoulder. In her voice reserved to gently coax distraught people, she said, "The bath's ready, let's wash off all the grime and grim reminders of things we don't want to remember, shall we?"

With that, they made their way downstairs, with Dorthe following suit, holding a change of clothing and a pair of boots.

"Need help with that?" The girl turned up her chin and gave him the eye. "Thanks but I can handle this on my own, cousin." He almost snorted and was about to say something else when the little girl continued, "Guest or not, you're not getting a chance to peep on her, understand?"

When she had disappeared downstairs, the door opened and in came Alvor, removing his blacksmith's apron and setting it at the back of a chair before sitting on it.

"Now that the women have their own business to attend to," he spoke, pouring mead on two tankards before handing one to Hadvar, "tell me what really happened in Helgen; was there really a dragon?"

After taking a huge gulp from his goblet, he looked straight to his uncle's eyes and answered, "Yes."

* * *

_"These elves make good politicians, I daresay," Senator Marcus Tullius stated, pacing back and forth in front of the hearth as his wife, Antognia, sat nearby, reading the contents of a missive. "Why they're as equally cunning as people in the Council!"_

_"Refusal would be considered a slight to the rules they imposed, huh." Antognia said before turning to her husband, "They want our eldest to marry an Altmeri noble."_

_"Marry what, mother?" A young General Caius Tullius asked as he stepped into the room, removing his helmet before inclining a head to both his parents. "Forgive me for the rude intrusion-"_

_"No, Caius, sit." His father said, now standing by his wife. "A letter arrived from the Thalmor, suggesting a bride for marriage to further 'strengthen' the-"_

_"To further sink their claws in the Empire and cripple it from within, is that it?"_

_The Senator gave him a curt smile. "There are times that I wonder why you decided to join the Legion than take up my title in court and be a politician yourself."_

_"You flatter me, father, but we both know I'm not as skilled with words compared to my brother."_

_With that, the older man laughed shortly, before clearing his throat. He addressed his son with fond eyes, as he always had, and placed a hand over his wife's shoulder. Antognia replied by taking his hand and kissing the back of it before twining her fingers with his. "We all know that your brother," he continued, "is quite sickly. Intelligent as he is, we aren't even sure until when would he live, even if he's capable of producing an heir. Although for the latter, I guess that's why we have you."_

_The General almost grinned, and his father was beaming. "But they demanded the eldest son, and as much as-"_

_"Oh father, marrying is not a health-risk, as long as the bride is as every bit of the lady mother is."_

_All three heads turned to look at the figure leaning casually against the door frame. There, the younger Marcus Tullius, smiled before sauntering inside the room and sitting beside his twin brother. "A pleasant morning to everyone present, such a fine day to discuss marriage, yes?"_

_Antognia cleared her throat and looked at her sons before turning to her husband. "Since we're all gathered here without notice, and you both now have the idea of what the Thalmor wants, let's hear what you have to say."_

_Caius stared at his brother, whose smile is yet to leave his face. Marcus reclined deeper into the chair, draping both arms on top of it._

_"I say send her in!"_

_"Marcus..."_

_The only reply he got was a wink._

_"Well," the Lady Tullius said, "the letter did say a detachment is now escorting her party on the way here so may I suggest that my two sons prepare themselves to be presentable to the lady. And no, Caius you're off duty, so take that armour off." The command is in her eyes as well, and he felt himself deflate in defeat._

_"Of course, Your Majesty."_

* * *

_His entire household was lined up; with the exception of some guards patrolling the manor, awaiting the arrival of the future lady of the house. Both his parents looked stiff, he assume he looked the same, while his brother seemed to be glowing—standing upright with a slight smile on his face, he seem to be taking this quite in stride. And then, the echoes of the much anticipated hooves of horses beating against cobblestone came. True to their word, the Thalmor did send a detachment to escort their precious ware that came in form of an Altmeri lady. The man who led them all dismounted from his horse, which then was attended to by a foot soldier smiled at his family before sketching a curt bow._

_"Senator Marcus Tullius and Lady Antognia," he started before posing himself in front of the parked carriage, "the heir Marcus and General Caius, I thank your entire domiciliary for the most warm welcome. I am Thesiare, Thalmor Justiciar in Bravil, pleased to present the Lady Auriel from the Summerset Isles."_

_With that, he opened the carriage and held out a gloved hand. A slim pale hand slid fluidly into his and a head full of ivory curled locks made its way out—decked in a silk gown appropriate for the Imperial court and flat silver slippers. The General felt his entire household gasp in awe of this creature in front of them. He fought the urge to roll his eyes and instead focused his eyes forward; glancing subtly at this Thalmor 'gift'. She possessed a rather small face for an elf and looked rather kind against her backdrop of Altmer soldiers. A small smile adorned her thin lips and she regarded everyone with gentle eyes. That looked almost silvery in colour. She approached and curtseyed, her eyes closing as she did. And when she looked up, their eyes met, and he made sure to glare hard enough to make her look away._

* * *

_Decked in his Imperial General regalia, his boots clunked against the floor loudly as he made his way towards the Altmer. He stopped a few steps away and her handmaiden excused herself to give them privacy. She turned around, that practiced smile on her face as she curtseyed to him._

_"General."_

_"Are you a spy for the Thalmor?" He asked between gritted teeth._

_She looked taken aback, a hand flying to cover her parted lips. "I beg your pardon?"_

_"I will not repeat myself."_

_His glower burned right to her as she simply stared back in surprise._

_"My lord, I'm sorry to disappoint you but-"_

_"Now's the time to drop the theatrics, Thalmor. You and I both know the reason why you're sent here. Were you tipped by someone to spy on my family?" He took a step forward, to which she took a step back in reply, "Lift a finger to hurt any of them and I will-"_

_The crease on her forehead only deepened, "My lord I-"_

_"I'm not your lord," He spat, his hand itching to do almost anything just to justify the hate he feels at the moment. Whenever he sees her, he is reminded of the war they lost when the Aldmeri Dominion descended to them. The feeling of helplessness as he watched comrades fall—the pile of bodies he helped bury… But he wasn't prepared when tears welled up in her eyes, her own hands balling into fists._

_"I understand the resentment you feel towards me, General," She said, as quietly as she can so only he can hear, "Believe me, I do. But do you know why I am here? Yes, it might be because the Dominion seeks to destroy the Empire from the inside. Yes, it might be to spy on possible rebels. But do you really know why I am here?"_

_She took a step forward, brusquely wiping her own tears. "I am unworthy to marry my own kind. Because I am a half-blood. Because the title I hold back home is better given to someone of more value than I am. My sincere apologies if I taint your bloodline with mine, General."_

_She then tilted her head up, fire present in her eyes as she looked at him straight on. "I understand your resentment, because I feel it too."_

_With that, she turned on her heel and ran. His mouth felt dry, and he can't find the strength to move from where he stood._

_"You made her cry," Antognia deadpanned._

_Quickly he spun to face her. "Mother I-"_

_"Hush, dear boy, I know. She told me herself last night. Women with her standing are 'given' away, in the farce of a 'gift of loyalty' to 'strengthen the bond' and 'uphold the Concordat'. We all know it's a poor reason to thinly veil their intentions, and we all know how they are about reproducing and preserving their heritage. Giving the half-bloods with titles away narrows down their choices; hence preserving their bloodline with their smug faces and superiority complex intact."_

_She took her sons' hand and gazed up at him. "You know how fierce the hatred for the elves is. Everyone feels it, may they be affected by the war severely or not. The Thalmor are aware of that, and couldn't care less for the women they send away."_

_With a gentle pull, she coaxed him to walk with her and tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. "Say most Imperial noble families has your experience and disdain for the elves. Say most would jump at the conclusions you had. Say most would kill any elf they come across. How would you feel for these ladies, for her?"_

_He remained quiet, and his mother smiled at him, "Remember not all people are where they are by choice. Remember that freedom is a choice not given to most and blessed are those that can change their paths."_

_Antognia stroked her son's cheek affectionately before continuing, "Give her a chance. She may not be given the best choices in life, but we can give her a better life should we choose to. After all, once she's under your brother's cloak, she'll be family. Don't you want your family to be happy?"_

_With that, she was on her way._

_"Mother," he called out, making her pause and turn her head to him, "how can you be so good with words?"_

_She flashed him a grin before walking on. "Your father married me, remember?"_

* * *

A sharp knock on his door awakened him. With a start, he quickly sat up and stood, strapping his sword to his mail before walking up to his door. Although this has to be one of the rare moments he actually slept, he feels restless and had an ominous feeling about what's next. Rikke's pale face when he opened the door confirmed this.

"General, we have urgent reports." She breathed out, before turning to go downstairs.

He followed suit and braced himself for _anything_.

"Ulfric is planning an attack on Whiterun."

* * *

A/N: Hi there. Thank you for reading/following! I must say I overindulged in providing history and may be dragging it for too long but no worries! The next chapters will be better... I hope...


	4. Chapter 3

Dragonsreach was quiet—its members eating solemnly on their places. Amusing, Balgruuf thinks, not even my children dare to insult each other. Perhaps, the news of a dragon seen near their home unnerved even them, and the anticipation of news whether Irileth and the messenger succeeded or failed gnawed at them. Seconds turned to minutes and minutes turned to hours, and he must admit that he is becoming anxious overtime…

Then it came. It shook the very foundations his Keep stood in; its tell-tale signs left dust and lint.

"By the gods, it's an earthquake!" Farengar cried, and everyone scrambled for cover. Guards drew up their shields and quickly ran to their Jarl, held them up their heads and formed a shield-wall for protection in the brunt of the wood that might fall. Balgruuf was caught off-guard when his three children huddled close, latching themselves onto him with fear evident in their eyes. Although however on time they were, the final shaking of the ground almost threw everyone off.

A muffled roar came from the distance, but to his ears, it was loud and clear. _"Dovahkiin!"_

And then, the quaking stopped. They waited for a few more minutes, but there were no aftershocks. Perhaps they had just gone through it, and the Jarl has to say, he was quite relieved it wasn't a massive earthquake—Dragonsreach may have been built to capture a dragon, but surely it does not say much about withstanding the cracks in the ground it would have made. People slowly gathered themselves before moving, and much to his dismay, his children went off to place as much distance between themselves and from their father. If an earthquake is all it takes for them to stand so close to embrace him, Talos smite him, but he'd wish it happened as often as possible. People returned to their respective places; he on his High Chair, his children to their chambers, Proventus beside him, and Farengar back to his room. Hrongar however, approached him for a different matter.

"Was that…?" he breathed out, an excited light in his brother's eyes.

Everyone's heads snapped towards the door when it swung open, and the Altmer strode in, looking worse for wear. The leather armour she strode in just hours ago seemed newly-made, now singed and cracked all over. Dirt was all over her entirety, but as she moved closer he was almost shocked she bore neither burns…nor scars. She walked in with a limp, but perhaps it has something to do with how the leather boots came undone in the wrong places, but nonetheless, he can tell the battle has been rough. Where's Irileth? He found himself asking, but bit it back.

"You heard the summons," Balgruuf stated, more to his brother, before turning to the approaching elf, "The Greybeards…"

* * *

Her new Thane… isn't like the others she has served before. She kept mostly to herself, preferring to do things on her own. And it will take more than enough failures to make her ask for assistance, much like now, as Lydia sat near the hearth. When she picked up the knife with all intentions to make something edible, the Housecarl had rushed to her side, offering to do it, that such actions should not be her concern. Instead, she found herself excused, free to do as she please for the day. _"But,"_ her Thane continued with a smile, _"Should I need help, I will call upon you."_ With that, she found herself wandering around the streets of Whiterun in search of anything to do, until she decided to stay near her and observe what it was that she wanted to do.

The moment she opened the door, she _knew_ something was wrong. And upon the hearth, there was her Thane, staring glumly at a pot filled to the brim with _cabbages_.

"A pleasant afternoon, Lydia," she greeted, her eyes not leaving the pot. "You have caught me at a disadvantage."

And so she stayed; by the hearth, and gave her tips from a distance. She earnestly did as she said—something that confused Lydia. Weren't elves supposedly the most arrogant life form to ever walk the plains of Nirn? _Hopefully_, she thought, _this isn't a ruse to get people to trust her_. She furrowed her brows and pursed her lips. Trust that she will crush once we find out she's allied with the Aldmeri Dominion…as a spy. Shoulders sagging despite herself, she eyed her Thane once more. She was sweating, loose tendrils of ivory plastered on her forehead and the sides of her cheek, the rest tied up. Her overall disposition is stressed over the eleven pots of failure so far, and she's ever determined the make the twelfth count. She was very conscious of stirring the broth—checking the pot almost every minute and paced back and forth in front of it. Well, Lydia thinks, that's one thing she has in common with her mer cousins. Her mer cousins. Doubt any of them possessed the same paleness as she has. Her eyes too, they seem more human than most. So does her features. _Perhaps her father is a human?_

"Is it done?"

She looked up from her stare in the floorboards to the towering lady in front of her with wide platinum eyes. Lydia rose from her seat and stood in front of the simmering pot and her Thane before dipping the ladle and giving it a stir. She took a small amount, poured it on a tiny saucer and took a whiff of its aroma. Well, for the twelfth attempt this doesn't smell so bad. She blew on it softly and sipped slowly, letting the flavour dance across her tongue. As befitting of almost a dozen failures this does taste better. In front of her, the mer stared at her expectantly, her hands clutching at her skirt.

"It has most definitely improved, my Thane."

"Please don't tell me that just to get me out of the kitchen," she replied in one breath, fists not leaving the poor cloth.

Lydia turned to rinse the saucer in the nearby washbasin, dried it with the spare piece of fabric before handing it over to her. She relented and took it, mimicking her actions before. When she tasted it, her eyebrows rose a bit and slowly broke into a smile.

"You're right, Lydia, it has indeed become quite…palatable." The Housecarl returned the smile.

_Harsh choice of words for herself, but at least it's something._

* * *

A week has passed after her cooking fiasco and the new Thane of Whiterun is getting ready to leave, as was the advice of the Jarl himself. "No, Lydia," the Altmer answered when she offered her sword on her journey to High Hrothgar. "This is something I must bear upon myself to embark. I do not wish to endanger your life for my own protection."

"But such is my duty-"

She offered her an apologetic smile and clasped a shoulder. "Allow me to grow strong and be capable of more than protecting myself," she said, eyes sincere and Lydia found herself relenting her claim, "After all, I am the Thane of Whiterun, and if rumors were true of my dragon blood, how will I be able to save this world, let alone Whiterun, if I rely heavily upon my trusted Housecarl?"

With a smile and a quiet goodbye, she was gone. The eerie silence enveloped Lydia, and somehow she found it comforting. The mer is a Thane, she, her Housecarl—her words are absolute, at least to her, and decided to put her faith to her growth. That said, she decided to channel her strength to making the house habitable. She can't let the Dragonborn return to a shack instead of a home now, can she?

_A part of him wanted to simply forget about the whole incident after justifying his actions with his reasons, but almost all of him wanted to at least apologize so he can completely put everything behind him. After all, his morals dictated he should honour his mother at all cost, and acting like an arrogant fool does her no fairness. And so he set off to the east wing of the manor to do so. He was about to knock when the person he sought opened the door. They stood for some minutes in an awkward silence until he cleared his throat._

_"I would like to-"_

_Then the door slammed in his face. He blinked at the intrinsic designs carved in the oak door before the realization that he should leave and that she hates him sunk in. He turned to walk away when the door opened and she was there, clutching a piece of well-skinned bear pelt around her shoulders. He also noticed the nightgown she has and mentally slapped himself. So much for his manners and his mother's upbringing._

_"General," she breathed out, "a pleasant surprise."_

_He turned to face her and said, "For my behaviour yesterday, I apologize."_

_He watched as the tips of her nose slightly turn red and her lips break into a smile._

_"I'm sorry for my own as well, General." "Caius."_

_Confusion apparent in her eyes, he continued, "Call me Caius." With a hand splayed across his chest, he inclined his head forward. "Caius Tullius, General of the Fourth Legion."_

_Her smile grew wide as she grasped at her with one hand and held the fur around her shoulder in another. "You have me at a disadvantage, for I've no titles to boast," she said before dipping herself low in a bow, "hence I am simply Auriel. It is nice to have met you, General Tullius._

_A tiny smile found its way to his lips despite himself, but he didn't fight it. "The pleasure is all mine."_

* * *

A/N: My apologies it took so long and it's so short, I won't supply an excuse but a promise that it will be updated by Sunday again. Thank you for your patience, and for reading!


	5. Chapter 4

A roar sounded from afar. From where he crouched under, hidden by reed and weed, he tilted his head a bit and caught sight of an approaching bear. He closed his eyes. Right hand pulling the string of the Elven bow he looted from a Thalmor on his way here, he inhaled deep. The murky scent of the nearby swamp and the mud clinging to his boots filled his lungs as he kept it in. Eyes trained to his target, he released the arrow and exhaled. The bear roared for the last time before dropping dead; his arrow lodged successfully to the roof of its mouth. Even so, he stayed still; senses caught a sudden movement to his far right. Footfalls came closer, leaving him too little time to move for cover.

"It has been too long since we've fed." A raspy voice cut through the dead of the night. "We should attack tonight and-"

"Hold your breath," a languid one replied, "we'll be wiped out before we even kill off the guards. Haste makes waste, my friend."

"But I'm getting hung-"

"Enough." His voice was curt now and it was effective in silencing the other.

They stood there long enough to make his muscles weary from a stationary position. Silently gritting his teeth, he realized he was down to two options—either kill them, or run for it, since they seem to make no indication of moving. His thought process was broken when the first man clicked his tongue.

"She's taking too long."

"For a vampire, you sure have poor senses," a voice from his left drawled—a female.

The familiar chime of jewelry accompanied the slow saunter of the newcomer.

"My lord, forgive my-"

"Enough. Tell me how it goes."

"The 'accident' has every citizen on edge." She narrates, as if skimming through a written report, "The town has little to no visitors as of late. There is turmoil in everyone's minds, and it will be effective in ripping the village apart when the time comes."

A pause. He can feel the chill creeping to his back, a sensation unwelcome in this foreign land with an impending fight he may have to forfeit. Shadows swirled from above, an echo of a cry resounding everywhere. _A challenge_, the voice inside his head said. It puzzled him—it was a voice he never heard before. He looked at his hands; they were slender and pale, not the fingers a Nord boy of ten must have.

"Tch. We must depart now." The second man admonished, "I do not wish to perish between a dragon's jaws."

Just like that, they've fled, saving him a fight for another day and leaving him for another. He stood up, and the shadow blocked Secunda's light above him. The dragon's eyes were fixed at him, before its maws snapped towards him. He inhaled deeply; feeling his lungs stretch to lengths impossible if he thought of it. Words older than he resounded in his head, like a knowledge he must have known long ago. He parted his lips, and they were conveyed; _Yol—_

* * *

Joric awoke with a start, clawing frantically at his covers and sweat drenching his clothes. Idgrod the Younger sat at the foot of his bed, and has been sitting there for quite a while now ever since he started gasping in his sleep. Concern was etched all over her face and _helplessness_, because she knows not how to handle her own brother whenever he gets these _nightmares_. She can only hope that medicine from Danica in Whiterun gets here quick, and hope it alleviates him from the pain.

"Joric," she called out, "calm down."

His neck snapped to her direction, tears brimming in his eyes and hands still clutching at the sheets. He blinked twice, letting tears fall before crawling to his sister, arms enveloping her in an instant. And he _cried._

She can only pat his head—whatever the visions he has, they must be a lot more frightening than the glimpses she has in her dreams. _It is stronger with mother and Joric after all_, and while she was thankful for not waking up from nightmares, she feels like she's been missing out on _a lot_. Sighing, and with the knowledge there's more or less nothing she can do, she subjected herself to comforting her brother.

Minutes passed and his hiccups had subsided, and by the slightly opened door, Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone stood, a goblet of water in her hand. She handed it to Joric and he drank, even tipping the bottom to empty it.

"Tell me what you saw," she implored, now sitting at the only chair in the room.

The young boy dangled his feet at the edge of the bed and faced his mother, whose eyes mirror his.

"Morthal is in danger, mother," he whispered, "An imminent attack. A foreboding uprising," he paused to stare intently at his mother, "From your own people. Please mother, we have to be careful; _you have to be careful_."

"I see that Joric, I see that every night I close my eyes," was her reply before taking his hand and giving it a brief squeeze of reassurance. "But what interests me, is whose conscience you partook in that dream. What did you feel?"

"I felt power from my lungs, like it stretched in a manner I have never done before. There was a _dragon_."

Shivers ran up Idgrod the Younger's spine; she made no move hiding it, nor did the two other people in the room make notice of it.

"Then I shouted—I don't know the words, but I just did, I just—"

Then their mother's mouth was set in a grim line. Usually it meant trouble will befall them, so the two were anxious to hear what she has to say.

"So the news of the _Dovahkiin_ roaming Skyrim is indeed true." She finally stated. "The person whose consciousness you partook in that dream Joric, she must be _it_."

"She?" Joric asked, "how did you—"

"I was the dragon. Or at least, I shared its eyes."

She then walked out of the room and paused before descending the stairs. "She may be the only one to ease the confusion in my people's hearts and minds. She may be the only one to solve our own problems for us."

She then addressed her children with a solemn gaze. "Be good to her, will you?"

* * *

Helgi couldn't believe her eyes. What used to be synonymous with warm hearth and arms to hold her, now stood in decay. Walking up the steps, she turned around and looked at the town before her. What used to be a shop frequented by people is now avoided at all cost. She couldn't blame them, really. For it _is_ haunted; because she stood here, when supposedly she should be gone. _Like mother is,_ she thought helplessly, _yet I'm still here_. _And I don't know why._ She wanted to cry then, but settled to sit down at the steps leading up to her former home. But being a wandering spirit isn't so bad, despite the loneliness one feels. She can still misplace Lomi's ingredients and she'd be none the wiser. She can now enter houses without ever getting noticed—in fact she just walks through doors. She can still play tag with the other children, although they couldn't see her. She can still hear that terrible Orc bard play his lute, and see Jonna behind the counter, a sigh escaping her every now and then. She can still see the people going on with their chores, but now it's quite obvious how distraught they were. At that moment, she felt like sighing, but settled for slumping forward. She wished she can see what people thought of, what her own father thinks, as he chops wood and sits by Alva's house. _Alva's house,_ the thought resounded in her head, and she tried to shake it off. It was just last night, yet she felt as if every detail was still on going in front of her—and she doesn't want any of it.

_She sat there beside her father in Alva's house as he took small sips of his mead. It was quiet, and Helgi asked herself, will my thoughts reach him is I tried hard enough? She lifted a hand to put over his, but then the door sprung wide and in walked Alva, decked in her, as mother said it, inappropriate clothing. Hroggar hastily stood up and approached her. His eyes darted across her entirety, and he asked, "Are you hurt anywhere?"_

_Her lips turned up in its corners as she placed a hand to his shoulder to halt his actions._

_"__I am fine, my love." Her voice drawled, and it made Helgi uncomfortable. It made her want to shiver. "Nothing to worry about."_

_"__Even if you say that, I will always do so, anyway."_

_Her amber eyes flickered with something foreign to the little girl. It must be love, she mused, or otherwise she wouldn't take father in, right? She watched, horrified, as the woman leaned forward to her father's ear, melded her body with his and wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. Her lips parted, and out came, "Touch me, so you can find out for yourself." And her teeth bit the lobe of his ear, before taking it in her mouth._

_It seemed to have triggered something in her father, because in an instant, his hands went up inside her skirt and he pushed her against the door. Helgi sat there, gaping, as the woman wrapped her legs around her father's hips, watched how his trousers came undone and how she mewled out 'Hroggar' like it was the most holy name there ever was. Her moans drowned out her father's grunts and a few more pounding against the door sent her sounding so sinful that Helgi felt herself dirtied and turned away._

_But they __weren't __done. Not yet. Especially when her father pulled up Alva's dress over her head and he kicked his trousers off. She saw clearly where they connected and felt like throwing up. Hroggar's shirt came off next and it landed somewhere near her. He then carried Alva to bed, his hands bracing her backside before putting her cautiously down the bed, as if she were a precious __artifact__. He then spread her legs and began moving once more. She wanted to cry then, but felt no tears come. She wanted to scream, and ask her father if he ever loved mom, if he ever loved her, to be replaced so quick like this. She may not feel it, but she knew she was hurt. She wrapped her arms around herself before covering her ears to try and muffle their voices out, yet she knew it was futile. Even after the candle has burned out and their breathing filled the void, she sat there, waiting for tears to fall, and her mother to console her._

She looked up at the graying sky above her. It will rain soon, she thought. I just hope the sky cries the tears I couldn't shed.

* * *

A stranger came by this afternoon, and she was beautiful—at least to her eyes. She thinks it was the pale hair that made everyone turn their heads to see her or maybe it's the fact that she's an _elf_, and people had a common mistrust about her kind since… what was it again? A war? She forgot the details, but she knew it had something to do with that. She wore a sleek black armor that looked very good on her, and somehow Helgi felt envy—she would never grow up to see herself if she will look like that, if she will wear something like that. She carried a huge bow, and she bet it's taller than she is. She stopped by Jonna's tavern to ask the word around town, and when she pulled down her cowl, she was entranced by her whole face and the sound of her voice. It sounded chilly like air in midwinter, yet it also sounded womanly. Jonna informed her of the fire that claimed her home, and that she should ask the Jarl if she wanted to help. She bought bread and cheese, bid a quiet thank you before sitting down near the hearth. Helgi sat down beside her too, and watched her eat. She noticed she had a certain grace to her movement, but kept on going rigid each time the door swings open.

The moment she saw her enter Highmoon Hall, she stood by her burnt home and waited. _She might be the one._

* * *

Lexzly: Yes, I know you're Chellkie D: But thank you for that first review, I'll have to strangle you next time we meet.

To that guest: Thank you! Now if only I can stop getting blocks along the way…

Steampunk Timelord: Did it, thank you for the notice.

TheGreatJabberyJamie: I think I know what you mean, but mostly it's because when I upload it, my markers disappear. I'll work on it though, thank you!

And for those who have been with me since I posted this story, thank you so much for reading! This chapter was dedicated wholly to Morthal, the place I hold dearly after Whiterun.


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